


Unwind

by thatrandomnpc



Series: MadaTobi Week 2018 [6]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-06-23 13:28:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15607278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatrandomnpc/pseuds/thatrandomnpc
Summary: “I take it back,” Madara amends, “You know something.”Hashirama smiles, but there’s tension at the corners of his eyes. He laughs and winds an arm over Madara’s shoulders. Madara hisses at the onslaught of magic that pours off the fae king. “I’m sure it’s hardly worth your time,” Hashirama tells him, “Necromancers move on quickly enough.”





	Unwind

Madara despises necromancy.

It isn’t the practice itself that infuriates him. He knows several other members of his clan who detest the forbidden school of magic on the grounds that they find it inherently immoral. Something about desecrating the dead and angering the gods. Madara doesn’t care much about that--has never much cared to worship the gods and and their tenants when his mother was a being of the Wild Places. Even now, surrounded by humanity, he can feel the draw of the forests in his blood as sure as he can feel the fire burn in his chest.

_(It’s always worse when he’s in the city. He can’t imagine how Hashirama stands it.)_

No, what really pisses him off about necromancers is the fact that the theatrical assholes inevitably hide in some musty crypt or graveyard. Finding them, much less smoking them out, is inevitably tedious.

“If I were a what?” Hashirama asks, slamming his drink hard against the bar top. Odd. Madara has _never_ seen him drunk before in all the years they’ve known each other, but then… the man _is_ a bit of a ditz when he isn’t unwittingly terrifying.

“A necromancer,” Madara repeats tersely, “I’m hunting one.”

Hashirama laughs, hasty and a touch manic. “Where would I hide?” he replies, “Certainly not in my forest.”

Madara narrows his eyes irritably. Fae find human magic hilariously underwhelming. He’d hardly accuse Hashirama’s court of practicing human necromancy. “I wasn’t accusing you,” he points out, “Dead from two separate cemeteries have gone missing. They usually pick a single location--too much work to lay enough lines in two separate places.”

Hashirama blinks, surprised. He taps his chin thoughtfully, and Madara silently laments the fate of Fae reputation due to this lone creature. Hashirama may be one of the most powerful beings in existence, but he also happens to be obnoxiously _likable_. Of all the run-ins he’s been forced to defend foolish humans from with the Other, most of them have been due to some mistaken assumption on the human’s behalf that the Other abide the same rules.

“Sure it isn’t that serious,” Hashirama says.

There’s an odd look in his eyes. Madara frowns. _That_ is the look Hashirama wears at court. Hashirama’s gentle heart and willingness to interact amiably with humanity is all too often mistaken for naivety when, in fact, Madara has _never_ meet anyone better at reading other beings.

“I take it back,” Madara amends, “You know something.”

Hashirama smiles, but there’s tension at the corners of his eyes. He laughs and winds an arm over Madara’s shoulders. Madara hisses at the onslaught of magic that pours off the fae king. “I’m sure it’s hardly worth your time,” Hashirama tells him, “Necromancers move on quickly enough.”

Madara could argue that _anything_ on a human time scale could be considered “quickly” to Hashirama, but he doesn’t bother. Rather, he shoves the oaf’s arm from his shoulders and reasserts his personal space. “Stop it,” he hisses. He glances around. The barkeep is tending to other customers further down. No one is paying them much attention, thanks to Hashirama’s glamour hiding his more distinctively Otherly features. The bar is familiar enough with Madara skulking around between cases.

He leans closer. Hashirama takes the hint and does the same, eyes curious. Quietly, Madara explains, “This is a national case now. No one calls _me_ for a brat screwing around with forbidden magic during some rebellious phase. Six people are dead. We’re expecting a seventh in the next week.”

Hashirama recoils hard enough that his stool rocks when he forgets to mind his strength. He pales several shades, lips parting.

Madara’s suspicions skyrocket. Hashirama _knows_ something. His old friend is sentimental and inexplicably fond of humanity, but _that_ isn’t an objective reaction. “Hashirama,” Madara presses, “If you know something--”

The fae king hesitates. Keeps Madara’s stare despite the inherent danger, even to a being as powerful as Hashirama. Madara would never use his power against Hashirama, but that’s hardly the point.

Hashirama shakes his head. Stands on unsteady feet. “I’m sorry, old friend,” he says, “I need to go.”

And he’s gone in a whirl of magic and leaves.

Madara scowls at the empty bench. Some of the other patrons have startled now. They’re whispering among themselves. One couple is leaving in a rush, pale-faced and shaking with the knowledge that a powerful Senju has been in their midst for the past hour. Madara doesn’t much care.

Hashirama knows something. Given his occupation, Madara is perfectly aware that fae operate on their own systems. He expects that fae politics have something to do with this. And yet…

It _does_ leave a bitter taste. Madara is a man with a foot in the door of both worlds. Hashirama is one of handful of creatures in the world who he feels at peace with.

To know Hashirama is so obviously keeping something from him…

He doesn’t like it.

  
  


The local police are usually moderately helpful, for all that Madara’s baby cousin is the one in charge. Hikaku has always been closer to Izuna than Madara, but family is family, and Uchiha are very much in the business of honoring those ties. Still, as helpful as Hikaku wants to be, there are simply some things that _are not done._

Interfering in fae business, apparently, is one.

“After your father, it’s a miracle Lord Hashirama was willing to entertain a truce,” Hikaku sighs, pinching a headache starting at the bridge of his nose, “I can’t risk that to arrange permission for you to enter the forest, Madara. Not even for this.”

Madara scowls but heads toward the door with a grumble to call him if something comes up.

Hikaku follows him out onto the street, which immediately catches Madara’s attention. “Wait,” he says as they walk, “Have you seen Hashirama already?”

Madara tips his head curiously, “Yes. Why?”

“Did he tell you about his new courtiers?” Hikaku asks, eyes intent.

Madara is careful not to frown. Hikaku is one of the few of their family that isn’t somewhere along the spectrum of horrified and disguised by Madara’s life-long friendship with Hashirama. Still, old habits and the like.

Something shifts in Hikaku’s expression, but Madara can’t read it. “Former exiles from Butsuma’s court. We couldn’t ask the reason,” he explains. Madara is looking for the reason for this when Hikaku continues. “One of them is a Changling.”

 _Shit_.

A fae’s power with a familiarity with human magic. Plausibility isn’t necessarily guilt. Madara knows that more than most, for all that half-blooded is not the same as a true Changling, but he would be a poor hand at his job not to chase that lead.

Madara isn’t the best for nothing.

“That’s all I have,” Hikaku says with a hint of apology.

Madara grips his cousin’s shoulder and a smirk, “You did well, cousin. I’ll take care of it.”

  
  


Hashirama’s forest sits on the edge of the city. Humans don’t make their homes anywhere near the boarder, but Others do. None of them much have anything to do with Madara as he passes. They know who he is, if only by the feel of his magic. It’s convenient, if nothing else.

Madara’s mixed blood grants him easy access to the forest.

He knows of a single graveyard in the entirety of the forest that hosts human bodies, and he only knows it because of a wrong turn taken when meeting Hashirama as a child.

It’s an ancient crypt, built long before urbanization, when the relationship between the fae and humanity was far more one-sided. It’s beautiful, like all fae craftsmanship. Dark stone twinned with a wild sort of garden twisted around the stretching, delicate spires. The honored dead are buried here--humans and outsiders who were fortunate (or, perhaps, unfortunate) enough to catch the eye of the first courts to live in the area.

Madara has to admit that his luck this time is better than usual with these sorts of cases. Clearly this necromancer was counting on the protection of Hashirama’s borders to keep them from being discovered. Alchemic and magic circles are chalked into the ground, humming with energy. Books and research material are scattered across stone crypts and available spaces to the sides of the main room.

Madara sweeps a finger across the lines, getting a sense for the magic. The lines are intricate. A marriage of human schools of magic and something Other. Plausible for a Changling, but then…

Not all of these marks are fae.

Someone clears their throat. Madara tenses and whirls, fire licking his fingertips.

Fae. Red eyes drop, unimpressed, to the fire. “If you set my research ablaze,” he says blandly, “I’ll be displeased.”

Even given Madara’s inherent immunity to fae glamour, this one is undeniably attractive. With pale hair, sharp features highlighted by red markings of magic, pointed ears, and red eyes, he looks otherworldly in the wisp light. And yet…

He’s dressed like a human, dark trousers, a plain, long-sleeved shirt, and shoes.

“You’re the Changling,” Madara decides.

Red eyes narrow dangerously, “I haven’t been that in a very long time.” He steps forward, arms folded against his chest. His eyes never leave Madara, as though he is the one to watch. Madara very nearly smirks. It’s a rare day he isn’t underestimated by his opponents. “You’re the Uchiha. I can assure you that you won’t find Hashirama here.”

 _Hashirama,_ he calls the king of this forest. No title. Newly returned to the court of not, he's high ranking, powerful, or both.

“I was looking for a necromancer,” Madara corrects, tilting his head toward the marks behind him, “It seems I’ve found him.”

The fae’s brow pinches momentarily. Pale lips part with surprise, but the sharp intelligence in those red eyes is fascinating in a way. Within a moment, the fae rolls his eyes in a surprisingly human gesture. He turns, apparently dismissing Madara, and moves to collect several of the books scattered around. “You believe I’m responsible for the murders.”

Clearly, it’s Madara’s turn to be thrown off guard. Hikaku has been keeping a tight wrap on information lately. The media hasn’t caught wind that they’re looking for a necromancer anymore than they have the fact that Uchiha Madara has been called in to track down the culprit. “How else would you know about that?” Madara demands suspiciously. He allows the flames to fade off, the scent of smoke sharp in the air now over that of old books and preservatives.

The pale fae glances back at him momentarily. A curious look sweeps across Madara’s arms, and a pale brow quirks upward, “You can completely control it? No burns?”

Madara scowls and leans back against the cool stone. He can feel old magics imbued in the walls, woken from a long rest by this contrary creature’s machinations. “I asked first,” he points out, saving the wariness building in his chest. This man may have been raised human, but he isn’t. Madara knows that personally. Some things cannot be unlearned.

“A trade then,” the fae hums, contemplative. He pauses long enough to sweep another assessing gaze over Madara, now taking in more than just his unburned arms. That pale head tilts curiously, red eyes sliding over Madara’s rounded ears. Madara nearly bristles. He should be accustomed to it--he _is--_ but is still pisses him off. At least the bastard has the good sense to go back to collecting his books. “Shouldn’t I be the one proposing a bargain?”

“I think you’ll find I’m not usually so easy to bargain with, if that’s what you want,” Madara points out with a dark sense of pride and satisfaction. He’s enough of the Wild to feel the same pull in his blood. He’s bound by his word, but hell if he isn’t going to be a contrary bastard about it.

“Good,” the other replies, seemingly sincere, “You should never compromise on the fundamental aspects of your duality.”

_What?_

The necromancer blinks when Madara doesn’t reply immediately. Curious red eyes shift back to Madara. “Our situations weren’t the same,” he admits, a sort of bitterness touching his tone as he continues, “but I understand.” He shakes his head, taking a seat on one of the crypts. He looks more like a soul farrier than a fae like that. “Regardless, I assure that my work here is entirely academic. None of those I’ve raised have walked past these walls. I haven't used necromancy to kill anyone, intentional or otherwise.”

He’s fae, despite his upbringing. Fae are honest, even to their on detriment, and this one has left virtually no ambiguity in his statement.

“If you aren’t the killer, who is?” Madara demands.

The pale man shrugs dismissively, now moving to rearrange the crystals and candles laying around waypoints of the room. Madara can _feel_ the magic in the air shift as he works. A powerful creature, certainly, but one who understands more than his own brand of magic.

This one is _dangerous._

“I wouldn’t know. If you know who I am, you know I’ve only just been welcomed home,” the fae replies. His tone is flippant, but the pressure of his magic is heavy in the air. It feels like ice jabbing at Madara’s exposed skin. His fire responds on instinct. The air doesn’t burn, but it’s a very near thing.

The fae jerks a fraction. Straightens his spine and stands to a frankly impressive height. For the first time since his arrival, Madara has his full attention again. _“You--”_ he starts, eyes intensely focused on Madara’s guarded expression. He seems to be _looking_ for something. Madara doesn’t know what. Eventually, his shoulders settle, but the focus hardly lessens. “I would need to see the scene to give an opinion on what the caster intends.”

_...what?_

“...what the hell are you suggesting?” Madara demands skeptically, “You do realize you’re currently my _only_ suspect?”

“All the more reason to agree,” the contrary bastard points out, lips twisting into a challenging smirk, “Unless you believe yourself capable of dragging me from the forest yourself.”

Madara might be able to. He isn’t sure. He’s a match for Hashirama outside of the forest, but he’s too young and unpracticed with harnessing the Wild magics around them. Judging by the way this fae has tapped into the ancient energies laying in rest in this place, Madara assumes he’s either old or gifted enough to not have a similar issue.

Regardless, he’s clearly better informed than any contact Madara has for understanding rites and rituals.

Judging from the last two murders, he’s _certain_ there’s something more going on than a few random killings.

“I can’t trust you,” Madara says bluntly, “You _are_ a necromancer.”

“A hobby,” the fae dismisses. Before Madara has time to gape incredulously at the absolute _absurdity_ of that statement, the fae steps forward. He’s taller than Madara apparently. The sly smirk that subtly pulls at his lips is infuriatingly attractive. “Tobirama.”

Madara stares, entirely taken off guard, _“What?”_

“My name,” the fae replies, more than a bit amused now, “Consider it an offering of good faith.”

Madara knows that, given his mother’s lineage, he can’t use names to hold power over the Fair Folk anymore than they can use his. He expects that this one knows that already. That isn’t what surprises him. Rather…

“Tobi!” Hashirama’s familiar voice calls from deeper in the forest, “Please stop running off! Forgive me! I didn’t mean--”

Tobirama scowls. Now that Madara is looking for it, he can see pieces of it. Tobirama bears very little resemblance to Hashirama, but there are hints of it in their cheekbones and the width of their shoulders. A hand lands on Madara’s shoulder. He can feel Tobirama’s magic more acutely now, but it isn’t overwhelming like Hashirama’s, which almost seems to feed into the fire under his skin.

Tobirama’s is soothing, and that is undeniably dangerous.

“Pick a destination,” he says.

Madara looks toward Hashirama, whose eyes have gone wide, even as he stumbles on amusingly graceless feet to slide into the clearing in the grove where the crypt sits. Something like wonder fills those dark eyes.

It’s enough to prompt Madara to take a chance.

“Do you know train station on the east end of the city?” he asks. Tobirama nods, somewhat surprising Madara. Maybe he isn’t as old as Madara might have guessed. “There.”

They’re gone before Hashirama can finish his chipper greeting.


End file.
